The Two Friends Stood For A Few

Every Fine Story Must Leave In The Mind Of The Sensitive Reader An Intangible Residuum Of Pleasure, A Cadence, A Quality Of Voice That Is Exclusively The Writer's Own, Individual, Unique.

There Are Only Two Or Three Human Stories, And They Go On Repeating Themselves As Fiercely As If They Had Never Happened Before.

It Is Easy To Pity When Once One's Vanity Has Been Tickled.

One January Day, Thirty Years Ago, The Little Town Of Hanover, Anchored On A Windy Nebraska Tableland, Was Trying Not To Be Blown Away.

The Higher Processes Are All Processes Of Simplification. The Novelist Must Learn To Write, And Then He Must Unlearn It; Just As The Modern Painter Learns To Draw, And Then Learns When Utterly To Disregard His Accomplishment, When To Subordinate It To A Higher And Truer Effect.